The Sound of Her Wings
by Sair1
Summary: Sorata, Arashi, fate, and some feathers. Standard X fare with a twist.


Spoilers for X/8. Characters nicked from CLAMP, title from Neil Gaiman. ...Twisted sensibilities, however, are my own. You've been warned.  
  
  
  
**The Sound of Her Wings**  
how many fates turn around in the overtime?  
  
  
"Fate sucks."

Sorata looked up sharply but she continued to stare impassively across the rows of crumbling granite. Freshly lit incense made curling dragon tails in the light wind as the last of a year's petals fluttered down, bright as india saffron and bathing the two in gold. The tree made a withering lace-work above their heads, and in-between the struggles of dead limbs he saw only blue sky.

He was wont to admit that she made a much prettier picture of it than him. She sat with her back straight along the bark, her skirt spread in valleys and peaks around her knees. Her eyes were focused, but distant. And when the wind caught her hair, he could see silver slip along like minnows in dark water. 

"Did you hear me, Sora? I said, fate sucks," she repeated without humor or conviction. The usual seriousness had fled her voice, leaving it strangely hollow. Sorata plucked a petal from the corner of her skirt and fingered it lightly, wondering.

But the brightness was a betrayal and the petal crumbled under his thumb. His eyebrows came together.

"Now that is slightly disconcerting," he mumbled. The pieces came down lazily, nearly shining in their descent.

"Don't cry too hard," she said in the hollow voice. She didn't turn with the words, and he couldn't tell exactly what stone she was reading. Perhaps it was none of them.

"Since when are you the irony queen?" he asked casually, but when she didn't respond he touched her shoulder gently,"What's bothering you, Arashi?"

Her gaze met his, suddenly, wide-eyed and startled. 

"I-I'm sorry. I must have drifted off," she said, her lips working a long time at forming the words. She began to smooth her skirt, eyes connected with hand, graceful, so graceful, the gold went tumbling over her fingers as she pushed...

"Bullshit. Com'mon, now, how am I ever to steal your heart if I don't know what you're thinking?" he said, a cocksure smile as he winked, and for a second he swore she was going to slap him senseless.

But she softened instead, sighing as she made her hands still on her lap. Impetuously, he reached for one, but she recoiled and this time she did slap him, the sound ricocheting between his ears--yet somewhere more familiar he heard wings, echoes of flapping and bird screams, black feathers spiraling to meet the dusty cobblestones.

"Don't you get it!" she hissed, but as his vision cleared there were only several inches of air separating their faces. He felt dizzy, those inches seemed dangerous when he could smell her.

"Don't you think that was just a little bit harsh?" he said, rubbing his cheek dazedly. 

"Try it again and I'll show you harsh," she said fiercely, in a manner he'd never seen before; and yet the tight fists trembling at her ribs told him she was badly shaken. 

"What are you so afraid of?" he asked softly. There was a fleeting smile and then she looked up, her throat moving beneath her skin. They came down around her, a fluttering shower that caught the sunlight as they turned.

"I'm...I'm happy to be one of us," she spread her arms generally, it was a useless gesture indicating nothing yet she held onto it, staring at her palms, "and I don't think I'd change it if I could. But I'm scared, Sorata." 

"You wouldn't be human if you weren't."

"It's not just everything--" she paused and looked at him directly, "...It's myself. I'm silly, I would do anything to protect Kamui or any of you, and I've known for a long time who I am. But I see...these things happening, things I can't change, and I believe in destiny, but I can't believe I can't change things. Maybe I'm stupid and maybe I'm immature because I don't want to take the good with the bad. I'm just so scared for all of us."

A tear rolled off her cheek but she began to laugh, a low, choking sound. She sniffled, wiping her nose crudely across the back of her hand, laughing even harder and the petals framed her like koi, fish fins and salty tears, gilded streaks hovering in the time

. "I'm so silly. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," she whispered. He caught her chin, lifting it and feeling the bones under the skin, so porcelain, the touch of crow feathers and echoes--

"How precious."

Arashi's chin slid from his grasp as she turned, they both turned, knowing dimly what was coming but shocked--her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. 

"I thought Kamui was to be here," Fuuma said, surveying the cemetery behind the winking lenses. The sunlight and the petals crossed them and darkened; Sorata saw himself and Arashi in the faint glare. Fuuma sighed, then folded his arms over his chest with an air of slight annoyance.

"I guess we forgot to relay the message." He shrugged lightly, but Arashi had slipped behind him, Arashi was chanting and had made her fingers a temple and between them there was light, it was like candle light and he could feel the echoes of a thousand following hers.

"No," Fuuma said, lifting his palm, before Sorata could think to--Arashi flew back and there was a sickening crack as she hit the tree, her head rocked forward and the petals rained on her tangled legs. "No seals. I'm not fighting you. I came here for Kamui." 

"Arashi!" he cried, dropping to his haunches, reaching for her, desperately wanting to make her all right. But she shook her head violently, her hair whipping from side to side; she grabbed his outstretched arm and pulled herself upright. She hastily pushed her bangs from her eyes, glaring at Fuuma. 

"Kamui isn't coming," she said. Fuuma cocked his head, and they stiffened--expecting--he broke into a wide grin and walked coolly along the row of head-stones. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he walked, scratching absently at the cellophane. He crumpled it wordlessly and tossed it over his shoulder, the plastic blinking as it rolled through the low grass. Fuuma withdrew one; he looked at it for moment, considering, then began twirling it aimlessly between his fingers. 

"You know, " he began, "you know, I'm quite fascinated with wishes these days."

Something trickled inside Sorata, cold spring water dripping in the all the caverns and grottos he knew only vague stories about. It was something, maybe only intuition, maybe only a glimpse of what he'd seen earlier--a murder of one. Beside him, he heard a sound like a ripple, a sinking sound and metal, gliding. Arashi held her sword in both hands.

"You," Fuuma pointed at Arashi and the girl fairly bristled, "have a wish. You know it, too, don't you?"

"You'll never be god," she murmured. She raised the sword to her ear, her legs poised in a charging stance. But she did not move.

Running reflections faded across Fuuma's sunglasses. Clouds struggled, then sagged on the knotted fingers of bare branches. 

"Ah, but god is not some celestial genie," he said, smiling warmly, "And I have the power to grant wishes."

"And say my heart's most fervent desire was for you to be horribly maimed, or something," Sorata interjected, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Is that in your repertoire as well?"

"Uncalled for, Arisugawa. Besides, I'm not interested in you at the moment. I know what you want and we'll get to it in time," he replied rather petulantly, but kept smiling at Arashi, that secret little buddha smile that said we'll be there in a minute, darling, something that Sorata could not immediately comprehend but set the coldness trickling.

Fuuma said: "He doesn't know, does he?" 

Arashi inhaled sharply, her fingers tensing, testing on the hilt; Sorata's gaze never left Fuuma as he threw a patient, restraining arm across her breast.

"Oh, now we know you're bluffing. She wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole," he said blithely enough, but his tone fell flat on the last syllables. Something was changing--the air had darkened, thickened like some burning thing, bubble bubble toil and trouble the witches were boiling in stinking incense and there were only petals petals petals as fragile as stained glass windows. 

Fuuma pulled off his sunglasses.

"Enough," he said; Arashi let out a scream and shoved him roughly down, broke so hard that Sorata stumbled back, Sorata recovered his balance late enough to see her pounding across the yard, loafers flapping and forgotten at her heels. Her sword flashed in the fading light.

"Arashi, wait!" he called; she ignored him. The blade was raw silver but her hair was just black, black ribbons pinned and streaming from her face.

It began in his fists. It was not a conscious thing, no, just high and cramped feeling, time suddenly clicking faster and faster on little tin wheels--Arashi running, Arashi's foot spilling gravel and smoking incense as she scrambled over headstones--spinning, hair standing in attention. Thunder rounding the corners. Sorata could beat her to her quarry if he tried.

Her skirt bounced, mounting the granite and the sword flared white high above her head; it left him in a wave, sparkler tracks shrieking across the grass; Fuuma looked up and buddha smiled. Sorata heard crows, feathers dripping like cold water. 

The daylight was blinding.

Her advance fell on open air, knees giving a rifle's crack on engraved stone. She pitched forward, her head bowed between her shoulders and blinking slowly, but Fuuma had vanished. Only blue sky. Sorata came running.

"Arashi, Arashi," he said, he repeated, legs feeling numb and distant . He came up behind her; one hand was splayed through the grass, one hand pale with clutching the sword. She was panting softly and her hair fell in wet ink strokes over her forehead. Sorata hesitated there watching her back, not thinking in words but in mezmerization. The jacket simply caught the crest of her spine, moving from each breath like sand on the lip of a wave. He sighed. 

Then fingers moved of their own accord, slipped experimentally through her hair, pausing to feel, then gently tease out a tangle.

She was staring at him.

"Oh, my mistake. Look but don't touch! I must've forgotten the rules, babe." He promptly dropped the offending strands, palms up and blushing. She said nothing. Arashi pulled her legs beneath her, perched on the edge of a bronze plaque.

Her lips parted, but something caught there and whistled to an abrupt stop in her throat. He followed her gaze over his shoulder, along the mercury reflections to the tip of her blade--a hand, legs collected and kneeling; Fuuma's face. 

His hand closed around the edge and gave a violent tug. Arashi screamed, her other arm flailed, skidding over dirt and stone, nails digging for purchase. Sorata instinctively caught her waist; one hand flew out, mantras circling--

The words stabbed short in a gasp; he came rolling in a knot of a head and legs to rest at the base of a marble headstone, struggling to breathe.

Fuuma's face tightened in a frown; blood made crosses on the steel. He gave another jerk that brought Arashi lurching to her feet. Sorata coughed hoarsely. Something rattled there behind his ribs, dry and metallic and he fought to shake the rumbling echoes of the impact--echoes, beating wings, a murder of one--

Feathers came down. Focus blurred and became as clear as delusion. Arashi was kneeling. 

She held it cradled in disbelief; her palm was bare except for a stigmata torn in bright red where the sword had been. Arashi looked up in quiet realization. Fuuma was nothing but darkness lined by the sun. 

But silver glinted above his head, it followed the ellipsis of the black lenses, and gravity of another kind came gliding down through her belly. She never screamed, no no no, that was the beating, the sound of her wings, fragile as paper and petals. Sorata's feet made a clumsy progress; faltering, roots and vases, never feeling. 

Feathers framed her like shadows, falling.

She thrashed weakly there, smearing the reflections, one arm limply approaching the hilt. Coughed and red brought color to her lips. But he was kind and he smiled and he pulled it up and she crumpled.

"Fate--" he gazed at Sorata and his tongue darted out onto the blade, drawing her blood delicately across the silver, "--Altered."  
  
  
--bmt   
5/2/00--5/4/00   
  
  



End file.
